The Army of Souls
by gin and ironic
Summary: Snape is assigned to a dangerous and all but impossible task by Voldemort. It is in the Order's best interest for him to deliberately fail in achieving any end result. But Harry finds out about Snape's assignment, and failing clashes with him. Preslash.
1. Prologue

The Army of Souls  
by Gin&Ironic

Rating: R  
Summary: Post OoTP. Snape is assigned to a dangerous and all but impossible task by Voldemort, and it is in the Order's best interest for him to deliberately fail in achieving any end result. However, when Harry finds out about Snape's assignment, the necessity of failing clashes with Harry's agenda.  
Pairing: SS/HP, mostly preslash  
Disclaimer: JKR is the master of this universe, not I. I'm but a poor fan fiction author with optimistic and somewhat deluded views of the books.  
Notes: Thank you to I Got Tired of Waiting and SylvanWitch for the spectacular betas. Their help is proving to be immesurable.  
Archiving/feedback: Send requests/flames/flattery to ginandironic[at]yahoo[dot]com.

**Prologue**

Severus burst through the door, wand in hand, noting the widening of Potter's eyes to a doe-like state. "_Legilimens._" His voice was firm. He watched as Potter's knees buckled from the onslaught and felt Potter's woefully unprepared mind give way under the spell after a moment of dutiful struggling. He smiled grimly to himself, watching the endless parade of self-pity that followed, so amateurish and repetitive in its earnestness it nearly turned Severus' stomach.

This was their fourth session since Potter arrived at Order headquarters, and the first memory Severus saw upon entering his mind had been the same every lesson thus far. Presumably killed by Dumbledore when found snooping the grounds of the house, Kreacher's fondest wish had been fulfilled, his head mounted in the upstairs hallway. Severus was forced to watch Potter rise at what looked to be the crack of dawn, advance down the hallway, and start jabbing the head with his wand. Furiously, over and over again until angry red sparks showered and scorched Kreacher's face. Finally, he would stop--just before the Weasleys would rise, spelling away marks and any other evidence of his depraved, self-pitying hobby.

Just as he was planning to leave Potter's head, he was pushed out with a wave of startlingly powerful magic, and Potter fell awkwardly into Severus' own memories.

_His father shoved his mother up against a wall in Snape Manor; Lucius Malfoy was saying something about Slytherins and pride; a cold sensation started to overtake a 17-year-old Severus, and ---_

"That was nearly five minutes, Mr. Potter. Did you forget my instructions to practice?" Glowering, he tried to collect himself, as he was slightly out of breath from the shock of Potter having done something right for once.

Despite being inches away from unconsciousness, Potter stared down at the floor sourly. "No. Sir."

It had become obvious to Severus in less than a week how quickly Potter was slipping into despondency. According to Lupin and Tonks, he had not owled but once in the early part of summer, and they found him at Privet Drive a huddled mess in his bed. Severus saw this event in Potter's memories. He watched distantly as they merrily packed Potter's trunk for him, scrubbed him raw with a Scouring Charm, and carted him off without so much as a word of reprimand.

When the boy arrived at Headquarters (which Severus refused to acknowledge as having once belonged to the late Sirius Black) he sulked around in his room for a week, only coming out at night when absolutely necessary. This brought on many impassioned discussions between Order members, to which Severus was unfortunately privy. After two weeks, Potter suddenly started emerging to eat and study some each day, acting quite the contended adolescent. Everyone around Potter heaved a figurative sigh of relief, fears put to complete rest. Severus, however, wasn't convinced and continued watching the boy like a hawk, not trusting his newfound contentment.

Potter seemed to be oblivious to Severus' scrutiny and happily let him trample through most of his darker thoughts. There were quite a few of them. Potter burning letters. Potter scribbling nonsense furiously on a piece of parchment. Potter prodding Kreacher's head. Ad infinitum.

He initially tried to be mild, as mild as his temperament and the subject would allow. Previously, Albus had taken him aside and demanded nothing but stoicism during the sessions. He struggled to maintain calm as Potter sneered at his memories, no doubt finding in his arrogance they didn't measure to standard.

"You are not the center of the universe," he spat, watching Potter stiffen with anger at being dismissed so easily.

Potter did not try any harder. Severus changed tactics and all but slammed through his mind, ripping up memories as he came by them, trying to leave Potter shaken or at least angered. Nothing happened. He continued to watch with growing fury as Potter wallowed in angst.

"You are not trying."

"Sorry. Sir." Always his canned response. Always sullen with the 'sir' tacked onto the end, dirtying it with disrespect.

He said nothing in response the first few times, but his patience quickly reached the end of its tether. "You're not sorry. You're enjoying the outlet of having someone wade through your endless self-pity."

Potter did enjoy it, Severus noticed, as much as he could enjoy anything at that point. He found Potter would leave a lesson more alive and less likely to drown himself in self-pity. Still, the dark memories didn't abate. "If you are showing me this drivel because you think I might find you more than an uninteresting, one-dimensional child, or because you think I'm going be impressed with your anguish, Mr. Potter, you sorely need to reevaluate your decision."

"Yes. Sir."

Severus finally stumbled upon some manner of progress when Potter's feeble brain began shoving images of Black falling behind the veil down Severus' throat. All he could think was how Potter would kill them with his foolishness. "You are not the only one who has lost in this war," he shouted, feeling a vein throb in his temple.

The words, while impulsive, seemed to strike a chord within Potter, and the next time Severus cast the spell, he was flung out within scant seconds. He cringed against Potter's ruthless tour of his memories and pushed him out.

"That's the idea," he said, once Potter had got the hell out of his head. 


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

One afternoon it was lunch, and Snape stayed past his lessons to speak with Molly. Harry tried to listen from the kitchen, nibbling uninterestedly on his ham sandwich, but they both spoke in hushed tones. Grumpily he sank back in his chair and quite unenthusiastically stabbed a stray fork into the center of his meal, staring uninterestedly at it until Snape came into the room. Molly was nowhere to be seen.

"You should eat, Mr. Potter."

"I'm not hungry."

"Of course not." Snape's voice was a low, derisive swoop of assertion.

Surprisingly, Snape went into the kitchen, put himself together a lunch of bread and soup, and finally sat at the other end of the table in rigid and pointed silence. He'd definitely never done that before. Harry went from watching his upright fork to watching Snape eat with bland concentration.

Snape noticed and ceased chewing. "Merlin, are you that desperate for companionship?" Snape knew that he was, that Harry was desperate not to be alone, and the question was rhetorical.

"You're the only bloody person here who can even say Sirius' name." That wasn't entirely true; Snape only alluded to Black, but it was more than anyone else did. They all acted like Harry would fracture at the mention, at the mere syllables.

Snape swallowed his bite, cocking his head with faintly bemused concurrence. "It is always Black with you."

Harry waited in silence while Snape finished his meal. After he was done he efficiently spelled his bowl and spoon clean, taking them up into one hand. He came to stand by Harry, a towering figure; unexpectedly, eyes no longer narrowed in scrutiny. "You have become more worthless than your late Godfather was. He would not have wanted that."

Snape set the bowl down on the counter as Harry fought for something to say, his mouth dropped open in rage and surprise. Nothing came to mind. Snape brushed past him, his usual scent - something like silk kept in a cold, musty drawer for too long - shocked Harry in its oddly perfumed intensity. Another useless realization; his professor used ivory soap.

---

A barn owl arrived to let Harry know there would be a delay in his next Occlumency lesson. Harry had a decent hunch Voldemort was calling a meeting. The lessons themselves were beginning to take real hold and now afforded Harry a little peace during sleep. Even his scar hurt less frequently, when he considered how often Voldemort must have experienced heightened emotions. Death Eaters were swarming the countryside, killing Muggles nearly every day, but all he felt was the occasional twinge of pain. The change was odd; his scar and his connection to Voldemort previously defined the time he spent in the Wizarding world. The scar's loss was now felt. On the other hand, people stopped looking to him as a sort of Voldemort watch-dog, which was a relief.

Harry stayed awake on Wednesday night, which was when Snape left for the meeting. He was aware of Dumbledore in the house, probably sitting off in the kitchen looking over documents, or talking with the adults during the wait. Dumbledore's presence alone confirmed Harry's suspicion of where Snape was off to; the man only came when Snape was called to Voldemort's side. Harry's cloak and the Extendable Ears were past worthless when the Headmaster was at the house, as his magic supported the usual security spells until they were virtually impenetrable. Aside from that, Dumbledore had a nasty habit of knowing everything that went on, and Harry didn't feel up to being admonished.

It was nearly three in the morning when Snape came back, waking up the portrait of Sirius' mother. Harry was reading a Quidditch magazine, and he opened the door to his room still holding it.

"Severus," Dumbledore said quietly. Remus was behind him and looking moderately anxious, which was saying a lot, considering his usual placid state.

Snape struggled to close the curtains on Mrs. Black's angry portrait (she was hissing at him now), and when he turned, Harry got a good look at him.

He was wet his hair plastered to his face, and it wasn't raining outside. He was haggard, exhausted, lines Harry had never noticed before etched deeply into his face. He started to speak but caught sight of Harry standing in the doorway to his bedroom, and his mouth flattened into a harsh line. Even the familiar displeasure on his face didn't offset his gaunt appearance. "Not here," he muttered.

"Of course not," Dumbledore said. He glanced at Harry, but Harry didn't bother to read what was in it as he already knew what it meant. Dismissal.

"Goodnight Harry," Remus said absently as the three of them passed. "Pleasant dreams."

Snape started talking, admittedly in a very low voice, before they reached the kitchen. Harry strained to hear what was being said, but the words he caught made no sense. "Souls at rest," "necromancy," and "Ministry." The last Harry caught was a tired-sounding "Fudge, that imbecile," before Dumbledore closed and warded the door behind them. Typical, Harry mused; mot enough information to give him any help but enough to tear a hole in his insides with curiosity.

The door down the hall opened and the three men come out well after two hours had passed. Harry didn't know why exactly he was still awake and waiting, but all attempts at sleeping failed him. His mind raced and he ended up drafting several letters to Hermione, asking if she knew about necromancy at the Ministry. In the end he tossed them all out; he'd have to explain why he wanted to know, and Hermione was too diligent to help him snoop in Order business. She'd easily see through any lie he concocted as well. Ron wouldn't be any help, Sirius was _dead_, and it wasn't like Mrs. Weasley would divulge information on ostensibly Dark Magic. She'd probably faint or send a Howler or something.

Harry punched a pillow and rolled over, trying to get comfortable.

It was a long time before sleep came.

---

For some reason Harry assumed Snape wouldn't be up to Occlumency lessons the morning after coming back from Voldemort. He should have known better, no matter how awful Snape looked and felt, he wouldn't dare give Harry the satisfaction of missing the lesson. The git made Harry's life as hellish as he could without potentially crossing Dumbledore; Harry was berated and insulted endlessly, told to heel like a bloody _dog_.

Fifth year's Occlumency sessions had been horrible, but some of the distastefulness was offset by Umbridge and the hectic school year. Now alone and isolated with only paltry summer homework to do--in Grimmauld Place no less--Harry was feeling every single moment of misery to its full degree. It couldn't have been worse if he'd been left at the Dursleys to starve. At least _they_ couldn't prowl through his memories like some sort of vengeful hunter.

_Snape_ was allowed to put memories into a Penseive, but Harry was forbidden from it. When Harry complained to Dumbledore (or "whined like a first year who'd had his candy taken away," as Snape put it) he was informed a Penseive would allow him a handicap he couldn't afford.

"But what about the Prophecy? What if Snape… er, Professor Snape finds out the whole Prophecy?"

Harry tried desperately to sway Dumbledore, but the old man shook his head. "Professor Snape knows about the contents of the Prophecy, Harry. You don't have to worry on that account."

A flash of fear hit Harry hard when he realized what that meant. Snape _knew_, and there was a way Voldemort could learn. Harry never gave much thought to Snape's prowess at Occlumency before, but he couldn't help praying the man's mental defenses would hold.

If Snape knew anything of Harry's worries, he didn't show it. "A Penseive will not help you in battle with the Dark Lord, Potter," was all he had to say on the subject. His own was kept under careful lock and key, silently reminding Harry of his mistake from the year before. It wasn't necessary; Harry wasn't about to unearth more of Snape's worst memories, not after what he'd seen.

Remus knocked hesitantly on his door at around eight, offering him breakfast that Harry declined. Snape was already waiting for Harry in the drawing room. It was their usual place, so stalwartly uncomfortable no one but Harry and Snape even dared use it.

"Potter, stop dallying," Snape ordered when Harry lingered in the doorway, yawning widely.

"Yeah, fine. Sir." With one last stretch of his jaw, Harry crossed the floor and stood roughly five feet from Snape, loosely holding his wand between two fingers. Snape hated the causality, he knew, and would force him to correct it, but it was a temporary distraction from the labor-intensive day ahead.

"_Legilimens_." Snape's yellowed mouth never seemed to move to form the spell.

Nothing like the assault of someone's mind crossing yours first thing in the morning, amplified by the spell. Harry felt himself shudder distantly, trying to work up the energy to throw Snape out of his head. There was no passiveness, no waiting, just the fierce concentration of someone who very much disliked being spied on.

_Draco Malfoy bounced along in ferret form, Cho Chang eyed him resentfully across the table at Madame Puddifoots, Hermione withdrew the Time Turner from her blouse…_

By now Snape had seen so much it seemed almost ridiculous to panic or get upset. Harry managed out of requirement, not out of any haste or anger, which was what only used to work. A sure sign of improvement, not that Snape would acknowledge it.

_Snape, looking to be in his mid-twenties, sat in a holding cell in the Ministry of Magic, staring unblinking at the starkly white wall in front of his face. "He wanted information," Snape explained, wiping at his face and wet hair with a towel. Dumbledore and Remus Lupin stared at him as he spoke; only Remus' showed a hint of emotion; unease. "Necromancy texts, execution records at the Ministry. One can only assume…"_

As quickly as Harry'd fallen into the scene he was yanked out of it. Snape drew in a deep breath, but it was unclear if he was angry or dazed, possibly just still weary from the meeting the night previous.

"What was—" Harry started to ask.

Snape didn't let anything of the Order or Dumbledore slip into the sessions, carefully putting recent memories into the Penseive. Harry was suspicious after overhearing what he had the night previous, something about necromancy; it seemed to be a keyword. Harry knew without a doubt he wasn't supposed to know anything, not with the way Snape and Dumbledore were acting around him.

"Be quiet, Potter. Don't speak of it. You weren't meant to see." Snape was still obviously too drained to inject much venom into the scolding.

"Why wasn't it in the Penseive?" Harry challenged.

"I… It is not your concern."

"But…" At Harry's wheedling, annoyed voice, Snape's face started to darken. "Sir, this was just last night, wasn't it? Your hair was—"

"Potter!" Snape had evidently recovered enough energy to yell. Big surprise. "Do you want me to Obliviate you?"

Harry dourly tried to stare him down but flicked his eyes away when it was clear Snape wasn't kidding. "No, sir."

"We will continue. Don't speak of it again, do you understand?" Before waiting for an affirmative, Snape straightened his posture and raised his wand. "_Legilimens._"


End file.
